


are we finally to something new?

by granteares



Series: PataterWeek 2017 [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Getting Together, I'm terrible at these lmao, M/M, PataterWeek, patater, recreational alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9612623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granteares/pseuds/granteares
Summary: Kent Parson isn't totally sure what to expect when the Falconers invite the Aces out to a bar after an off-night for the Vegas team where they lost to the Falcs in Providence— but whatever he expected, it definitely wasn't falling for the giant Russian man who had just checked him into the boards that same night.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rip this is the first OMGCP fic I’ve really written, but I just had to try to participate in Patater Week. I’m sorry if this is terrible. Also— this is un-beta’d and I apologize in advance if there are any mistakes! If anything is really glaringly awful feel free to let me know so I can edit it. I hope you enjoy!! FYI, if it’s confusing: Jeff Troy = Swoops, for me; I know people have done different things with the reveal, and the reveal is still pretty new, so I just wanted to clarify that as far as I go, Swoops is Jeff Troy’s nickname. There’s a few original players I made up for this and I already love them???

“Yo, Parse, you good, bro?” 

Kent looked up from his duffel bag and up into Swoops’ concerned face. He had come to stand in front of him, and Kent noted the way he stood with his hands on his hips, like he was challenging Kent to lie to him. Kent had given up on lying to Jeff at this point, though; his linemate knew him too well and he was always caught nowadays. “Yeah— I mean, s’gonna be a pretty bruise for a while, but I’m good. Probably looked worse than it was.” 

Jeff nodded, his posture relaxing. “Looked like a pretty hard check from where I was. Mashkov’s a beast, huh?” 

“You’re tellin’ me,” Kent agreed, running a hand through sweaty hair— reminding him he still needed to get out of the rest of his gear and into the showers. 

“Glad you’re good, bro.” Swoops reached over, down, patting Kent on the shoulder. 

“Thanks.” Kent gave his friend— probably his best friend in the world, now— a smile. 

Then he went about the work of stripping off the rest of his gear, glancing down at his right side when his torso was bare, and frowning to himself. Mashkov had checked him pretty hard into the boards late in the third, stealing the puck from Kent just when he had thought that he had an opening to shoot it past Schneemann. The impact had been shocking more than painful; Kent had composed himself quickly and zoomed off back toward his team’s side, where the Falcs were quickly passing it closer and closer to Rafter in the Aces’ net… and then Robinson had shot it top-shelf before Rafs could do a thing about it, the buzzer had sounded a minute later, and the Falconers had beat them 4-to-2. It had been a bit of an off-night for all of the Aces, and Kent just knew from the slight ache he still felt, and from plenty of experience, that he’d wake up to some bruising tomorrow as a reminder. 

Oh well, there was nothing to be done, except to be grateful Mashkov hadn’t given him a more serious injury. 

Kent stepped into the shower area of the locker room and washed himself down until he didn’t feel grimy anymore, and the hot water had loosened some of the tension throughout his body. He dried off quickly with his towel, then wrapped it around his hips to walk back to his stall and slip into the change of clothes that he had brought to head back to the hotel in. The rest of the team was still milling about as well, in various stages of winding down from the adrenaline rush of playing and getting ready to head out. He started to pull on his clothes, and was half dressed when one of the rookies, Dietz, spoke up. 

“Hey, my brother just texted— said the team was invited out for drinks?”

Kent had almost forgotten that Calvin’s older brother played for the Falcs, and tried not to show his disappointment at the offer. He normally wasn’t one to turn down a night out, really, but the Falconers were always a sore spot— only more-so when they lost to them. But to turn down the offer would be poor sportsmanship, at least some of them would have to accept the offer and keep up a friendly face. _The Falcs aren’t all so bad_ , Kent reminded himself. He was even civil with Jack at this point; they’d reconnected during the last All-Star weekend— Jack’s first time there, as a player, but Kenny hadn’t even been shocked to see he’d been picked because this was _Jack Zimmermann_ they were talking about. Being forced to spend the weekend with each other in the All-Star setting had caused them to talk, and make a few apologies to each other in the private moments they could steal. They didn’t talk a lot, but Kent was relieved they were friendly, texting occasionally, spending a few minutes chatting at various NHL events.

Kent noted that most of the guys didn’t seem bummed about the idea of going out for drinks, so he put on his lopsided smirk, nodded his head, and agreed: “Why the fuck not? Get the details and whoever wants to, we’ll head over.”

Dietz nodded his head, turned his attention back to his phone, fingers tapping at the screen to, presumably, shoot off a text to… fuck, what was his brother’s name? Kent would check the Falconers roster quick, a refresher of some of the names and faces, after he finished getting ready to head out.

After that, the guys seemed to pick up their pace to get ready, and Kent couldn’t help feeling a little excited himself after the initial hesitation. A few drinks would do him good, loosen him up and soften the blow of the defeat— even if he was drinking with the guys who had caused that defeat. Most players knew how to keep things on the ice, though, and Kent was sure after the initial chirps, things would dissolve into friendliness. It’d give him a chance to catch up with Jack, if he was there.

A few of the guys said they would pass on the drinks— the same ones who usually did, the older ones with families who got chirped for their early nights by the younger guys, and the couple who weren’t into the party scene for whatever their reason was— but a good part of the team was willing and ready to head out soon enough.

Jeff was by his side as they walked out of the arena, an arm swung around Kent’s shoulder, rambling aimlessly like he did. That was what Kent liked about Jeff so much: he could talk on and on, didn’t care if Kent truly listened, he was happy just talking to the air, and Kent was grateful because it was a distraction from his own head to have Jeff’s easy and familiar voice by him; but Jeff could also sense when Kent needed quiet time, and would just become a comfortably silent presence until Kent was ready to talk. He had no idea how Jeff did it. 

The team bus was waiting in the lot when they exited to take whoever was going to the hotel back, but those who were going to the bar had requested a couple cars through Lyft that would be arriving shortly, and so they waited in front of the arena after putting their gear and bags in the bus. It was far enough past the end of the game that the fans had managed to trickle out, meaning the Aces didn’t have to worry about getting bombarded here— though Kent wondered what kind of bar they would be going to, if they would have to split their time between socializing with the Falcs and taking pictures with hockey fans, even if they were in Providence. 

Kent rode over to the bar with Swoops and Rafs, about a twenty minute ride from the arena into downtown Providence and along a street that seemed to consist mostly of bars and a couple restaurants. It was far more low-key than anything Las Vegas had, of course, but the street was packed with what looked like college students milling about, smoking and bar-hopping and messing around. He noticed a few groups of people who must have come from the game, wearing Falconers merchandise, and tried not to tense up that maybe they _would_ have to spend the night dealing with hockey fans. _At least_ , Kent thought, _they don’t have a reason to hate us tonight_. The car pulled up along the curb and the three men piled out, making it through the door of the bar Dietz had mentioned without getting harassed by anyone. 

Inside, the bar was lit just enough to see, and rock music played from speakers overhead, while a row of T.V.s above the bar silently played different sports networks. It was, really, only a step above a dive-bar. No one bothered to turn around and look at the new arrivals, too busy in their own conversations or games of pool or beer bottles. 

“Dietz said they’re upstairs,” Rafs said by Kent’s ear, pointing toward a staircase off to the side. Kent nodded, and followed Rafter up the stairs, Swoops coming up behind him.

Kent crossed the threshold into an upstairs room that was slightly smaller than the one below, but still equipped with a fully-stocked bar, another couple of T.V.s, a karaoke machine and a little raised platform in one corner— _fuck no_ , Kent thought— and a pool table— where a few Falcs had already roped some Aces into a game. The music up here was a different song than what had been playing downstairs, but still some low-key classic rock. It didn’t look like anyone that wasn’t on either of the teams was up here beyond the bartender, and Kent felt his shoulders relax again; it must be some sort of private area that the Falcs rented when they wanted a chill night out. 

He tensed again when an arm landed heavily around his shoulder, and he flinched; he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching, too busy looking around. “Little Aces rat!” a deep voice exclaimed next to him, as the arm pulled him closer against the body’s side, and Kent let out a little hiss of surprise and pain, because it was the side that had hit the boards earlier, now hitting against hard muscle. The arm loosened its grip, and Kent looked up at Alexei Mashkov, who was frowning a bit. “Am sorry! You hurting from game? Did not mean to check so hard,” the Russian said, and the apology sounded sincere enough. 

Kent shrugged. “It’s— No, it’s fine, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

Alexei seemed pleased with the response. “Good! But I am getting you drink to make up for, though?” 

“I can’t turn that kind of offer down,” Kent said with a laugh, glancing at the bottle of Sam Adams in Alexei’s hand. “Get me one of those, huh?” 

Alexei grinned, and nodded his head. “Good choice, little captain,” he commented, before unhooking his arm from Kent’s shoulders and heading to the bar. 

Kent glanced around again, and noticed that Swoops was watching him, an eyebrow raised. Kent shrugged his shoulders again— _I have no fucking clue either, man_ — which made Swoops smile before he turned around and went off to the bar himself to get a drink. Kent took a tally of who else was here. It looked like half of the Falcs had opted out of a night out, but Kent recognized pretty much everyone. _And_ Jack was there, sitting at the corner of the bar closest to the pool table, watching the game with half-interest and talking to St. Martin when the older guy wasn’t taking his turn. 

Kent steeled himself, then walked over, because it wasn’t like Mashkov would lose him completely after getting his beer if he decided to stop standing in the doorway like an awkward idiot. He gave a small half-wave when Jack noticed his approach, quickening up his slow steps— he always worried Jack would feel cornered, was still so used to being ignored and avoided that he couldn’t help but wonder if the fact they talked nowadays was actually a dream— to close the rest of the distance. 

“Kenny, hey,” Jack greeted with a small smile when he was standing close enough. “You know Marty?” 

 _Not really_ , Kent thought, though he knew _of_ St. Martin: he was even more of a veteran player than Kent was, was probably on the verge of retiring in the next couple of years, or must at least be thinking about it by now— he knew they’d crossed paths at events and charities before over the years. But he smiled and shook the proffered hand. “Nice to see you,” he said by way of greeting, and Marty’s smile looked genuine as he returned the salutation. “You guys played a great game tonight,” he said to both of them, hand back at his side now. 

“Thanks,” the two Falcs replied almost in unison. Then Marty: “You Aces definitely put up a good fight, though.” It was polite, Kent thought, because he _knew_ they hadn’t put up nearly as much of a fight as they normally did, and surely the other team had to have noticed that. But the sentiment was nice enough, and Kent thanked him. 

Before they could get any more conversation in, a bottle of Sam Adams clutched in a large hand appeared in front of Kent, and the blonde man looked over— and up— into the grinning face of Mashkov. “Beer for you,” Alexei said. 

“Thanks, Mashkov,” Kent said with a smile, taking the beer from Mashkov’s hands and instantly taking a swig. It wasn’t his favorite, but it seemed like the easiest choice of beer when in New England, and he wasn’t that picky. 

“You call me Tater, is nickname.” 

Kent looked up at Mashkov— _Tater_ — with raised eyebrows. “Um, okay, sure, Tater. Where’s that name even come from?” 

Before Tater could answer, Marty spoke up, laughing: “Mashkov, like mashed potatoes!” Tater nodded his head, and Kent wondered to himself if Tater ever stopped grinning when he wasn’t in the midst of a game. It was shocking how unformidable Tater was off the ice; though still undeniably large, he was too eagerly friendly to be afraid of. How was this the same guy who had pulled him up one-handed by the back of his jersey and called him a rat (and whatever the fuck he had said in Russian) last year? 

“Ah, right,” Kent said, taking another sip of beer. He guessed the connection made sense. Somehow, it suited Tater, too. 

They continued the small talk for a little while; Kent caught up with Jack a bit, asked how his boyfriend was doing, Marty talked about his wife and his dogs and was easy enough to talk to, and Tater stood by Kent’s side, also easy to talk to, chiming in with his enthusiastic broken English and booming laugh. At some point, Swoops had joined them, grumbling about losing with Rafter to the Dietz brothers at pool. Kent hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long time, surrounded by genuinely friendly people, and slightly regretted that he hadn’t really spent time getting to know the Falconers before tonight. They were an easy-going group, at least the ones that were here, all smiles and laughs and light-hearted chirps. 

After a while and a lot more beers on Kent’s part, he found himself in a corner with Tater, who at this point in the night felt like he was auditioning for the role of Kent’s new shadow. It was a bit odd, Kent had noted a couple times throughout the night, but not entirely off-putting— Tater still talked with other people, his attention focused on other people, but he stayed a constant presence by Kent’s side like Swoops often did when they were out. Maybe it was the similarity to Swoops in that regard that made Kent feel relaxed around him and willing to let his guard down, because Kent never felt so easy around someone so new— and he surely never felt so easy around someone who had checked him just a few hours ago hard enough to leave bruises up and down his side. 

But Tater _was_ easy. Everything about him was warm and inviting, and it was no wonder the rest of the Falcs seemed to hold the giant Russian in such high regard. He was the opposite of everything Jack had been: sharp angles, biting words, cold eyes. Sure, Jack had had his tender moments, Kent couldn’t say he hadn’t; Kent had seen him vulnerable enough times during their days in the Q— but in the same way, Jack’s vulnerability had left him guarded and his patience ready to snap at any moment. Kent understood why, now, of course, and felt for his friend, wished he had known how to handle it then, but— _why was he comparing Tater to Jack_. 

He took a long drink of his current beer to wash away the thoughts in his head, and he must’ve had an odd look on his face, because Tater’s grin slipped into something that seemed like concern. “Okay, Kent?” 

Kent hummed. “Fine, yeah.” He smiled. “Sorry— go on, finish your story.” 

Tater studied him a moment, and Kent wondered if he was judging whether or not to believe Kent— whether or not to press or drop the issue. Apparently, he decided on the latter, and swung back into the story he had been telling of something ridiculous his dog had done recently. 

That was another thing: the way Tater talked about his dog reminded Kent of the way he talked about Kit; that same affection in his voice, his eyes. He had been quick to pull out his phone, much to the groans and chirps of any Falcs who had been nearby, to show the Aces pictures of the pitbull he owned— a rescue, he explained proudly. Kent had returned the favor with pictures of Kit, just to find out that Alexei had seen half of them because he followed her on Instagram. That had made Kent smile. 

“Yo, Parse… I think most of us are headin’ back to the hotel, bro, it’s getting late,” Swoops interrupted a few minutes later, and Kent pulled his phone out of his back pocket to glance at the time: 1 A.M. He frowned at his phone like it had personally offended him. “You coming back now, or…?” Kent knew the look Jeff was giving him; he gave him that look any time he thought Kent was going to get lucky with a guy. Kent took a swig, which finished off his beer, hoping any red in his cheeks at Swoops’ implication could be blamed on alcohol consumption. “Dietz is staying a while longer,” he supplied. 

“Think I’ll hang, then. Make sure the kid gets back safe, yeah?” 

Kent could tell Swoops didn’t quite believe his motives, and Kent wasn’t sure he quite believed them himself. But the other man shrugged anyway. “Sounds good. Text me when you’re heading back, okay?” 

Kent pats him on the shoulder, nodding. “‘Course, bro. Let me know when you make it to the hotel.” 

Kent watched the Aces trickle out of the upstairs bar, all except himself and Dietz. He noticed that while he had been focused on Tater, many of the Falcs had left, as well. Actually, he did remember giving quick goodbyes to a few of them: Jack had left much earlier than anyone else had— because if there was one thing that hadn’t changed about him, it was his secretly being an old man— Marty had left as well, with Robinson, who had been saying something about his kids. Besides Calvin’s brother, Josh, there was just Snowy— which is what Kent had found out they called Schneemann— and Fitzgerald— who Tater had introduced as Poots. 

“Who wants to head back to my place?” Snowy offered, apparently also realizing the room was significantly emptier. “We can walk there from here.” 

Tater and Poots quickly agreed, and Kent figured _why not_. He was having fun, and he had no idea when he’d have another night like this. As long as Kent and Calvin were at the airport in time for their flight and didn’t get into any trouble in the meantime, management knew they were grown-ass men who could do as they pleased. So he chimed in with a ‘yes’, and the brothers also nodded. 

With that settled, Kent followed the rest of the guys back downstairs— which seemed even busier now than it had a few hours earlier— and outside. He followed at the back of the group, but it only took a moment for Tater to lag behind and bump his shoulder gently against Kent’s. “Okay?” the Russian questioned. 

Kent took a glance up at his face, then back to the sidewalk; he wasn’t completely shit-faced, but had certainly had enough beers to be a little wobbly. The brisk late-winter air was doing its job sobering him up, though, biting at his cheeks so he tucked into his jacket a little more. “M’fine, yeah. I’m having a good night.” 

Tater was grinning— Kent could practically feel it at this point. “Am glad, little captain. I’m having good night, too.” 

They walked quietly the rest of the way to Snowy’s place— it turned out to be about a fifteen minute walk to a nice little house— occasionally bumping shoulders. Then Snowy was leading them up the steps onto a little porch, and inside the house, flicking on lights as he entered. “Willkommen!” he exclaimed, “Make yourselves at home. I’ll get everyone a beer, ja?” Then he was off down a hallway and turning into what must be the entrance to the kitchen. 

Kent followed Tater as he walked further into the house, looking comfortable in the goalie’s home— _he must come by a lot_ , Kent thought— and leading the guys into the living room. He plopped his large frame on a loveseat in the corner, and Kent barely thought about it before taking a seat beside him, not caring— actually, kind of _pleased_ — that it was a bit of a tight fit, his thigh brushing Tater’s if either of them shifted a bit. Tater didn’t seem to mind, either. 

Snowy walked in a few minutes later with a beer for each of them, handing them out, and Kent instantly took a swig from his new bottle once it was in his hand. 

The next while seemed to go by in a bit of a blur of beer and exhaustion; Snowy had turned on some music that was quiet and mellow, and they were all talking about nothing of importance, telling jokes and stories and laughing. 

Kent wasn’t even sure how he ended up with his legs swung over Tater’s lap when he processed that they were, in fact, there. He had a vague memory of complaining about wanting to get more comfortable, and just _doing it_ , and being extremely happy when Tater had not only not-protested, but had laid his hands over Kent’s legs like getting snug on a loveseat was something they did regularly. Tater had captured his attention again, telling him an embarrassing story about Snowy while the goalie groaned in protest—he was leaning in close to Kent and his eyes were _so big and warm and soft_ as he watched Kent’s face, and Kent would _swear_ gravity was pulling him closer and closer to Tater until the lack of distance between their faces was probably pretty fucking inappropriate. 

Tater’s breath smelled like beer, but Kent knew his did, too, and it didn’t matter. 

Tater tasted like beer, too, Kent noted when he processed that he had pressed his lips to the Russian man’s— he made a small noise of surprise, mostly at the fact that Tater _wasn’t pulling away_. In fact, his eyes were closed, and he was leaning in closer to turn it into more of a real kiss, and _holy shit I’m kissing Alexei Mashkov_. 

The wolf whistles and cheers startled Kent to finally pull away from Alexei, and he looked around the living room, where the other guys were grinning Cheshire grins in their direction. Kent felt his cheeks get uncomfortably hot, and he wondered if he hadn’t just majorly fucked up. The Aces knew he was gay, but he wasn’t officially _out_ — and was Alexei actually gay? Bi? Pan? Did his team know that, or had he just hurt him? Logically, some leftover sober part of his brain supplied, if it was surprising to the Falcs in the room that Alexei was kissing a man back, they wouldn’t seem as happy as they were— but the majority of him was drunk, and _fuck_. 

“Shit— Shit, I’m—” He scrambled so his legs weren’t in Alexei’s lap anymore. “I’m so fucking— _sorry_ ,” he stammered, moving to get off the loveseat— and to get out of the fucking house. If he texted Jeff, surely he’d come get him, or call him a taxi, and he’d calm him down, help him figure it out, tell him that they’d find a way to fix it and that’s what best friends were for. 

“Kent—” Alexei grabbed his arm before he could really get off the loveseat, and Kent fell back down onto it, wide-eyed and not sure who to focus his attention on. “Kent,” Alexei repeated, and Kent looked over at the man. “Is okay.” He was whispering, his arm gentle on Kent’s arm. “They’re knowing I’m not straight, is okay— if is okay with you.” Kent felt his head move in a little nod, and Alexei gave his arm a light squeeze. 

“Honestly,” Snowy broke in, “It’s about fucking time. The sexual tension between you two fuckers has been _killing me_ all night.” His grin was mischievous, but not mean. 

“Shut up, Snowy,” Alexei shot back, light-hearted, the same kind of friendly chirps the teammates had been exchanging all night. He turned back to Kent. “I’m thinking might be time for Aces to get to hotel, though, da? Is very late at night.” Kent bit his lip, wondering if that meant Alexei wasn’t really as okay with this as he was acting. Fuck, why did he have to be drunk? But Alexei nodded his head a bit toward the couch, and Kent turned his head to see that Calvin was half-asleep against his brother. _Oh, the kid_. 

“Oh— Oh, yeah, I— I guess…” 

“Not kicking you out, little Ace. We talk tomorrow, when sober, okay?” Alexei offered. “I give you phone number. Let me know when you are safe at hotel.” 

“Okay.” Kent didn’t know what else to do but agree. He knew Alexei had a point; it was almost 3:30 in the morning, one of his rookies had already fallen asleep, and they’d have a long day of traveling hungover tomorrow. Still, he couldn’t help worrying he had ruined the mood, that such a good night could have lasted longer had he not _kissed Alexei_. “Um…” 

“Give me phone?” Alexei posed. 

Kent pulled it out of his pocket, unlocking it and handing it to Alexei, watching him put his phone number in as a new contact before handing it back. “Thanks,” Kent muttered. 

“Do not be worrying, Kent, please,” Alexei murmured back. Then, amazingly, he leaned in and pecked Kent on the lips, and Kent was drunk enough to believe that this was going to be okay and he didn’t need to worry. 

“Okay,” he agreed, again, not knowing what else to do. He pushed himself up from the loveseat, and over to Calvin. “C’mon, kid, I’m taking you back to the hotel,” he said, waking Calvin up and getting him to unsteady feet with the help of his brother— who gave Kent a warning about making sure to take care of his little brother. Kent nodded; as far as he was concerned, Calvin was his younger brother, too. All his rookies were. To him, this was just another responsibility of being the team’s captain. He shot off a quick text to Swoops to let him know they were getting a taxi and would be at the hotel soon. Then, with his arm around Calvin, he walked them toward the front door. 

Alexei pushed himself up, following behind, seeing them out. They hesitated at the doorway; Kent thought Alexei looked uncertain. 

“Christ, just go ahead and kiss him again, please,” Calvin said, making Kent jump. 

“Fuck off, Dietz,” Kent replied, but Alexei was laughing. 

“If is okay with you?” Alexei asked, and Kent felt himself blush again. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, duh.” 

Alexei smiled, then they were kissing again and it was so soft and good and Kent was too drunk to properly handle his emotions (as if he handled them properly while sober), so he pulled away first, let out a breath. “I’ll text you when I get to the hotel, Tater,” he said as a goodbye, and Alexei nodded. Kent was aware of him standing in the front doorway, watching, until their taxi pulled up. Kent helped Calvin get inside, then they were off to the hotel the Aces management had set them up in this time. 

When they had arrived, he helped Calvin to his room, and passed him off to another one of the Aces rookies that Dietz was rooming with. Then, he made his way down the hallway and let himself into his own room. 

“You get laid, or what, man?” Swoops asked immediately. And, really, Kent should have known Jeff— who was almost always his roommate for roadies— would have waited up, ready to swoop in ( _ha_ , Kent thought, _his nickname is suitable for so many reasons_ ) and interrogate Kent like his mother used to. 

“Nope.” 

Swoops let out a noise of disappointment. “What the _fuck_. Mashkov was totally all over you all night, I thought—” 

“I got his phone number,” Kent admitted. “Which reminds me—” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, went to the new contact _Alexei Mashkov_ , and opened a conversation with him: _Got to hotel, thanks for tonight_ , he typed, then turned his attention back to Swoops— who had an eyebrow raised. “He, uh, wanted to make sure we made it here safe,” Kent explained. “But, uh… I kissed him…” 

“Now _that_ is more like it, Parser! Fuck yeah!” Swoops smile was so genuine and Kent knew he was blushing again. “Start of something, then, huh?” 

“I— Maybe, yeah… I hope.” 

Swoops pushed himself from his bed— the one by the window, he always took the one by the window; Kent had given up arguing this far into their friendship— and wrapped Kent into a tight hug. “Good for you, bro.” 

“Don’t get all sappy on me now, Swoops,” Kent chirped, feeling some kind of emotion rise in his throat. “I’m exhausted.” 

Jeff laughed. “Alright, Parse.” He let him go, and crossed back to his bed. “Good night.” 

“Good night,” Kent returned, stripping down to his boxers and crawling into the other bed. He grabbed his phone from where he had placed it on the nightstand, and smiled when he saw a new text from Alexei: 

_Glad you make it safe, Kent. Had best night tonight. I will call you tomorrow when you back in Vegas. Good night )))_

**Author's Note:**

> Back @ it again with The Airborne Toxic Event lyrics for all my fic titles.
> 
> Anyway, lmao, my Pennsylvanian ass knows very little about Providence or New England so sorry if you're a native and none of the little details… make sense… I tried. The bar they are at is based off of a shitty little bar I used to frequent where my dad lives (where you could still actually smoke inside ??? which I thought was completely illegal at this point ??? /shrugemoji) and the name of the bar was basically an adjective, at least amongst my friend group, to describe waking up in the morning smelling like cigarettes and the regrets of your choices in life.
> 
> Kent, however, does not wake up the next morning smelling like the regrets of all his choices in life (but his hungover ass definitely regrets some of them— like the amount of beers he drank).
> 
> You can hmu [@kentvparsin](http://kentvparsin.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you so desire!!


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